Pleasant Hill: A Story
by Doctor Neverdie
Summary: Steve is a sheriff suddenly thrust into the world of parenthood. Tony wants to be the best dad and husband. Thor just wants the family drama to stop, Nat wants to find love, Bruce is facing a midlife crisis and Clint is the best. Other characters appear and take over the POV. So, welcome to Pleasant Hill, Maine. Its a town way over its head but its got stories to tell.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, I haven't abandoned my Venom fic, but its still in progress. I wrote this to heal from something I've been going through. Please R & R.

If there's one thing Steve absolutely hates at the moment, its the alarm clock on his bedside desk shrilling to the point of almost bursting his eardrums. He hits it a couple of times and lays back on the bed. Another day, same old. He sighs and runs a hand over his eyes. The sun has already started peeking out of the horizon, which means he must get up and get ready for work. Some part of him wants to sleep all day but damn it Steve, that shield isn't gonna go to work by itself. No matter how mundane the work can be, its his job.

He drags himself out of bed, sullenly. Thirty minutes later he's showered, brushed and in uniform, pulling the black leather jacket closer to himself. He shivered. September had just began its second week and he was this cold. He puffs out a breath and closes the door to his house. He of course, hasn't had any breakfast. It might be because he has nothing in his cupboard and fridge except for Phil's homemade dinners in Tupperware. Or just because he enjoys eating at Rosa's, okay?

When he pulls up to said place, the red and blue neon words 'Silver Spoon' stare back at him blankly through his windshield. The bell jingles and chimes when he crosses the threshold, and he is greeted by a series of 'Morning, Cap!' by the occupants in the diner. He greets them back and slips onto the red bar stool as quietly as he can. The air pleasantly smells of bacon, hot coffee and a hint of lemon refresher. The wall behind the counter is used up by adverts and posters and the shelves full of condiments, electrical appliances and small decorations.

"The regular?" Rosa Temple questions as she wipes the counter, bright smile drawn on her slightly wrinkled face. She's in her usual checkered apron and blue shirt, red plastic rimmed spectacles and khaki pants. Her grey hair is up in a tight bun.

"Yes. With maple syrup." "

Black?"

"Yes please."

The woman nods and makes the order to Javier in rapid Spanish. Steve looks around. Jasper Sitwell is sitting alone in the first booth, flipping over the Daily Mirror. He puts the paper down, something akin distaste forming on his face and readjusts his red and blue tie for what must be the umpteenth time, Steve is sure. Jasper likes his ties. He of course, works in town hall so being neat in an over the top manner is expected of him. The man catches his eye, waves and returns to his bacon and eggs, newspaper forgotten.

Kenneth Morita is in the second booth with Everett Ross, in the middle of what seems to be a tense debate. Was this about the sudden change of public funds or the state of decay that is starting to descend upon the firehouse? Steve would never know.

Erik Selvig is absorbed in his Astrophysics book in the third booth, seemingly ignoring Darcy's attempt to start a conversation. The girl pouts and resumes to stare at her leftover waffles, picking at them in boredom.

A plate of pancakes is placed in front of him, followed by syrup and a cup of black coffee and double chocolate brownies which are on the house. "You're spoiling me, Rosa!" He complains and is about to add more money on the counter when the woman stops him, shaking her head firmly.

"Dessert is always free for you, Sheriff." She winks and walks away to serve other customers. Steve's hope of eating breakfast quietly is crushed when Thor steps into the establishment. His loud, boisterous voice is not hard to recognize as he warmly greets the patrons, claps Jasper's back so hard the man spits out a little of his breakfast, vigorously shakes hands with Principal Morita and kisses Darcy's cheek. Steve liked Thor. A lot. But today just wasn't the day where he felt like managing conversation. He tried to make himself as small and as inconspicuous as possible but the muscular, Norse like man notices him right away.

"Morning, Captain!" Thor slides into the seat next to Steve. "A cappuccino, Mrs. Temple. Wonderful day, isn't it, Steve?"

"If only it were less cold." The sheriff muttered.

"Oh, yes. Thirty five of our finest horses are being trucked off to Michigan this month. I hope they'll be taken care of. It looks like snow will fall early this year." Thor worked on a ranch a little out of town. He had a really good thing with animals, he should've been a vet. He instead dived into the family business of horse breeding. His brother Luke, or Loki, was far more ambitious and took his interests elsewhere or rather, as far as the town could provide. That said, he was an English Lit teacher at MCU. For all his disdain for the community in which he grew up in, he like everyone else didn't really want to leave. Nobody left town. They always came back. Steve came back. It was in the blood.

"The bill, Mrs. Temple." Jasper called out.

"I hear they aren't renovating the courthouse." Thor speaks up loudly enough for Jasper to hear.

"Oh, we don't know yet. Smith's handling that thing."

"Smith is shit at doing stuff," the newly arrived Clint Barton exclaims in disgust. He's in his ranger uniform and his boots have a bit of mud stuck on them.

"Language," Steve scolds.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n." The sheriff looks at the time. Fifteen minutes till work starts. He stood up and put on his hat. "Have a good day, ladies and gents. Nice shirt, Barton."

Clint gives him the middle finger. He knows that wasn't supposed to be a compliment. It's exactly seven forty-five when Steve arrives at the police station. He's done three errands since he departed from the diner, including checking in on Turk Barrett who is in house arrest — again. Carol, his main deputy, is already behind her desk, filling paperwork. She curtly responds to his greeting and returns to work. He has yet to see her smile. He's given up hope she'll ever laugh. She's good at her job though, and someone he considers a friend. Jessica is shoving someone in a cell, muttering what must be curses.

"Already?" Steve asked.

"This early? Yeah, I already got someone. This idiot broke into someone's house early this morning. Busted up shit. Peed on the sofas. He's strung up on coke or something. It took me half an hour to get the mugshots done. A fucking half an hour."

Detective Jessica Jones is a spitfire black haired woman with a thing for ripped jackets, red lipstick, foul language and drinks.

"Well, you got him."

"Oh, and there's a new case on your desk. There was also a breaking in at the Town Hall."

"What?! When?"

"Last night, eleven-ish." Jessica rubbed a hand over her forehead. "His highness wants to see you, like, now."

This can't be good. Nick Fury did not simply call upon the sheriff. He rarely called anyone outside the Mayor's office for anything. Even if a gunman had showed up, he wouldn't call anyone. He was a man who preferred to do things by himself. Like beating the shit out of said gunman. He wasn't a colonel for nothing. But Steve being called for... This meant something important had happened. Steve sighed. Mundane. Not.

He wasn't that far off from the crime scene when somebody waved him over. If the classic silver Toyota sedan with heavy scratches on the slightly caved in shotgun door was any indication, the woman he assumed to be the driver was a newcomer in town. He crossed the street and strode towards her.

"Hi, Officer. Thank God," she said. She was hyperventilating. Small beads of perspiration were already forming on her forehead. She was a petite blond woman with a sharp nose, high cheekbones and big blue eyes. Her tan coat looked too big on her thin frame, but she was dressed pretty nicely in office attire, namely a pastel blouse and grey pencil skirt.

"How can I help you, ma'am?"

"You see, I'm supposed to be at the Daily Mirror anytime now, but I got lost and my car just broke down in what I assume to be someone's parking space which I can get a ticket for, and the cell reception here isn't that good in this weather and I don't know where the auto repair shop — I'm babbling, aren't I?" She must've noticed Steve's amused smile and she blushed.

Steve shook his head. "I understand. You just want to get to work

early and make a first impression. No worries. The Mirror doesn't open up till eight fifteen. You've got plenty of time to make it. You from New York?" He had already whipped out his phone for a tow truck.

"What?"

"Are you from New York?"

"Yeah. Yes, actually." She stuttered.

"Brooklyn. Got any luggage in there, Miss?"

"Its Karen. Karen Page." They shook hands. Realizing that Steve was staring at her, her eyes widened in realization. "Oh! The luggage!"

She opened the trunk where three suitcases, two duffel bags and three extra size boxes sat close together. Too close. Like, they were squeezed so tightly together to the point of suffocating.

"Got a place to stay?"

"Um, I arrived this morning but I hear there's a place called the Sanctuary. It isn't out of commission, is it?"

He didn't get a chance to answer because Luke's red tow truck had already arrived. The large black man stepped out of the vehicle and walked towards them, his faded blue overalls unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white tee. He smiled widely at Karen and shook her bony hand. Steve could tell she was intimidated. Most people were.

"Luke, this is Karen Page. Miss Page, this mountain here is Luke Cage."

"They rhyme..." The woman observed.

"She needs to drop off her stuff at the Sanctuary. And she'll need a ride to the Mirror. There's something up with her car."

"Mack will fix it fine. Come on Miss Page."

Karen closed the trunk as Luke pulled the hook towards her sedan. "Thank you, Officer."

"Pleasure, ma'am." She nodded and followed Luke to the truck.

"And Miss Page?" She turned to look at him. "Welcome to Pleasant Hill."


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of eggs burning fills the tiny kitchen and Logan curses. He flips the omelette twice before delivering it to a clean plate. He places two slices of toast on top and puts the meal in front of Laura, who is sullenly sitting at the small island. She definitely isn't pouting (she isn't one to do that) but she's mad. He knows from the way she's looking at him. Not even angry glaring. Just blank staring. He wondered why their mornings always started with fights. Was it because Laura was constantly trying to be a pain in the ass, or was it because he was a bad father?

Shut up, brain. Now wasn't the time to mull over every mistake he's ever made. At the moment, he was intent on being early to work while simultaneously dropping his daughter off to school in quick succession. He made an omelette, a slightly burnt one, but an omelette alright and he thinks that deserves recognition as a success in his journey as a parent. A barely coping one.

The sound of fork scraping against plate brings him out of his thoughts. He would've asked her if his cooking had improved but knowing her, she would've said it tastes like horse shit. He takes the plate and empty juice glass from her with a stern "Go get your backpack," and she stares at him before disappearing to wherever she put it. Logan internally winces. He could tell he's hurt her feelings. He didn't know how, but he did. Maybe his voice was too harsh? He wipes the counter.

Five minutes later he's driving them away from their lone cabin with 'Brandy You're a Fine Girl' playing over the radio. Aside from that, the car ride is silent. Multiple times he opens his mouth to comment on either the weather, the trees or anything he sees, but every time he catches himself. Laura is playing with her denim jacket's sleeve. She turned her attention to the window where water was starting to slide down. A drizzle of rain had already started. 'Carry on, Wayward Son' took over the radio. Logan didn't speak. Half an hour later, he dropped her off at school with a gruff "See you later, kid." She doesn't wave goodbye. He wasn't expecting her to.

When he pulls up to the outpost, Clint Barton is already there, hands on his waist. He's talking to Nebula, his face scrunched up in either worry or plain annoyance. He turns to Logan who loudly shuts his car's door, as if to announce his presence. Barton was half deaf but that wasn't the point Logan was trying to make.

"What's up?" He asks.

"Morning to you too, Howlett." Clint sniffed. Logan turns to look at Nebula. She is an average sized woman and a force to be reckoned with. The right side of her pale face — under her eye and her cheek trailing down to her jawline are horizontal claw scars. They do not make her ugly. Nebula won't be Nebula without them. She's had them for twenty years and they hadn't hindered her progress as Pleasant Hill's fiercest woman in ranger uniform. He would've asked about her left prosthetic foot, or her somewhat bad right arm but she would shoot him and dump his body in a ravine. She didn't like pity. Nevertheless, Logan supposed that bear attack must've been damaging to her nine year old self both physically and emotionally.

"What's given Clint such a long face?" He eventually asks after that three second staring.

She shrugs. "Taserface."

Logan curses. "Why the fuck can't Nova keep an eye on their men?"

"Language," Barton admonishes. "They're lazy asses, alright. Taserface is even a bigger douche. But we get to arrest him this time. And the screw-ups who go along with false testimony in bad faith."

"You got evidence?"

"Remember that time he bragged about possessing a hunter rifle, MSG?" Nebula's mouth was formed into a ghost of a smile. "Those are only available in Angel Grove. Castle's Ammo. I was running something over there and it came up. He wasn't lying."

"The catch?" Logan drew circles in the dirt with his foot. Nebula's fiery red hair was cut short again, he observes.

"The bullet parts we found were those used with the rifle. I did profiling yesterday. Castle says Taser was the only customer who has ever requested specifically that weapon."

"I have a warrant ready. Its on my desk. I got a patrol west, so I better go on. I'll see you fellas later at the Valkyrie before seven, sharp." Barton waves his goodbye and set off.

"Shall we?" Nebula asked.

"Oh, yes."

-Line Break-

Natasha drew back the curtain and let light flood in the office. She shaded her eyes against the sudden brightness and put her briefcase down beside her chair. Taking a couple of tissues, she wiped the table free of dust. She was early today. Like all other days. She sniffed and sat down, looking at her timetable.

Several appointments till noon. Short lunch break. A court in session after that. Will likely last until four in the evening. She was crossing all her fingers for this. The accused stood no chance between her and Matt. Domestically abusive men deserved a special place in hell. The door opened and Natasha looked up. It was Foggy, holding a coffee cup holder and a brown paper bag she strongly suspected had donuts. She could smell it from here.

"Good morning to our fiercest resident lawyer," he greeted cheerily and placed a coffee in front of her.

"You flatter me too much, Franklin." She took a donut from the bag. Chocolate glazed. Her favorite. Perfect.

"How are the notes coming up?" Foggy asks with his mouth full.

Natasha grimaces in disgust. "Fine. I called René this morning. She's doing okay. Until court starts, anyway."

"Poor woman," says Foggy in a sad tone. Renne Marshall was their client. Natasha wonders how she survived eight years of torture. She still remembers the terrible burn wounds on the woman's back. The case had already made heavy ripples in the community and it must be especially hard for her and her children to deal with all the publicity. Any man who would've done that to her would be living without a dick by now.

"But hey, your crush is gonna be there!" Foggy, in an attempt to lighten up the mood, observed happily.

"Steven isn't my crush." She fought off every attempt her face made to turn tomato red.

"I didn't mention Steve's name, did I?" The blond man grinned in mischief. Natasha threw the paper cup at him.

"Foggy, this was funny the first billion times that you did it!" An angry voice said one floor down.

"This isn't happening again," A woman moaned and the sound of knuckles rapping against wood rose to a crescendo.

Natasha looked at her partner in disapproval.

"You didn't bar the door again, did you?"

"Come one! Its funny to see Matt and Bobbi try to open it!" Foggy protested.

"Open this door at once! I'm going to kill you!" Bobbi hollered.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Foggy yelled back, muttering a 'jeez' under his breath as he walked out of their shared office.

Natasha scooted her rollie chair closer to the window. The town had already woken up. Most faces she recognized. Robbie the firefighter walking out of Baking Heaven. Her friend Wanda opening up shop. Quill's blue Mustang slowly driving by. She could tell by the open window showing the horrendous orange coloured seats that no one would be caught dead with except him. Kraglin the barber arguing with Taser whats-his-name. The Chinese place beside the laundromat opening up. This was her favourite vista every morning. Sitting quietly and admiring her home.

The phone rang. She deftly picked it up, "Nelson and Murdock. How can I help you?"

Time to get to work. 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I decided to have Mary as Tony's wife because of a friend's suggestion. And because I wanted to explore Peter's character of how he'd turn out if circumstances had kept his parents alive..**

 _"... Judge Carter will see over the case this afternoon. Many of the citizens believe Clark Marshall will be convicted with no less than ten years in serving time. René Marshall's lawyers have left no comment..."_

"Your breakfast is getting cold." Mary observed. "Hmm?" Tony looked up from the Daily Mirror.

"Eat," she commanded, not unkindly. He obeyed and dug in. He couldn't imagine hurting Mary or their kids. Who could be that deplorable? Marshall and Howard Stark. Tony swallowed the lump in his throat. It wasn't bacon.

"Honey, are you excited for school?" His wife asked Theresa, their youngest. She shrugged and pushed back her wildly curly hair from her face.

"You should've brushed that. It will tangle more and hurt the moment a comb so much as goes near it. Then you'll start weeping." Harley chided.

"Is the pot calling the kettle black?" Theresa fired back.

"Hey, none of that now! You will finish your breakfast quietly and go to school. Why do you two always have to fight? Its like you're not twins." Tony intervened before the daily morning brawl started.

"Yeah, I wish he'd never been born." Theresa muttered under her breath, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Tessa," Mary's voice had a warning tone to it.

"Sorry," the girl mumbled sheepishly. Mary was still staring. She sighed.

"Fine!" She ground out bitterly. She turned to her brother. "I'm sorry for making mean comments and I love you even though you suck."

"Apology not accepted." Harley said to her. "See?!" Theresa had stood up, pointing her finger at Harley who stared right back. "He is so arrogant!"

"Your apology was arrogant and poorly phrased," Harley countered.

"That's why I like Peter better. He should've been my twin. You always sound and look like the mean older brother in a soap opera. Me, me, me!"

"Then go ahead and ask him to be one!" He screamed in her face.

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. So much for trying to avoid a fight. He sensed a battle bubbling beneath the surface. It was starting anytime now and he would be forced to take sides on who was in the wrong and who was in the right. Peter helped him speak.

"That's enough guys. You've just wasted a whole minute going blah blah blah. Should've been doing something counterproductive like putting those plates in the dishwasher." The fifteen year old said quietly. He had taken the paper from Tony and was doing Sudoku at an inhuman speed.

"Can it, nerd!" Harley snapped.

"You'll respect your brother, Harley. He's right," said Mary as she picked up the plates.

"Yeah, because he's such a goody two shoes. That Peter, this Peter. Gimme a break," the ten year old threw his hands up in the air and promptly left the breakfast table.

"Where are you going, young man?" Tony called after him. He sighed when he received no response.

"He'll get over it," Mary assured him as she finished clearing up the table. She turned to the two remaining children. "Get your bags — you're gonna be late. Andiamo, andiamo!" She clapped her hands and the two quickly left as instructed. She lowered her hair from the messy bun.

"I'm working the night shift. I'll make lasagna before I go. Is that good?" She asked him.

"Anything is good. Or we could just have pizza."

"Not again. Friday maybe. Bruce called by the way. Butterfingers is better. Could you please pick him up after work?"

Butterfingers was their four year old golden retriever. His leg was run over by a car, and it was a miracle he wasn't crippled yet. Bruce had the hands of a god.

"Yeah, I will."

"Hey," her hand was on his arm. She squeezed it through the pale blue shirt. "What's wrong?"

Why did she always know when he was troubled? It wasn't worth it. He supposed that was what made her special. Knowing his every thought, every desire, every heartache.

"Its about the Marshalls, isn't it?"

Tony swallowed. "I know René, you know. She works down at customer service, soft voice, compassionate. Hardworking. I kept thinking why she wouldn't leave him, I mean, it was no secret she was being hurt. The Mirror just made it official. Then I thought of my mom..." His sentence trailed off.

Mary's hands were now on his shoulders. "I guess she was afraid of losing custody of me, if she ever challenged Howard in court." He refused to call him dad. "And then you're here, and our kids. Then some voice tells me I'll go back to before and..."

The tips of her fingers found their way under his chin and forced him to look up at her. "You're not him, Antonio." She said sternly. "You aren't going to lose us, you aren't going back to the man you were. Here, now — that's what matters. You are a good man. Stop believing otherwise."

"Te amo." He kissed her deeply. His hand carded through her dark curls, another one massaging the back of her neck.

"Eww. Gross," Theresa commented from the hallway. "Get a room, please."

"We made you!" Tony told her and the girl made a face as she ran out of the house.

"Go on. Its seven forty already." She patted back his hair and kissed his forehead. "Stark men are made of iron." - -

-Line Break -

Bruce eyes the passing trees with some admiration. The colors had already shifted to reds and oranges and yellows. There is a certain wetness in the air, he can smell it. That and the dirt, they give him a sense of peace. The car turns into a sharp corner, one with lesser trees.

"So Doc, you beat the shit out of Blonsky?" Bucky asks, grinning. Bruce blushes deeply.

"It was a long time ago."

"And it still make waves."

The veterinarian shifts in his seat. "I just got tired of his bullying. You can't blame a guy, right?"

Bucky hold up his free arm — the cybernetic one — in self-defense. "I ain't judging."

Bruce knows what he's thinking. He is a five foot ten tall guy with an average weight who stood up against a six feet three, tank muscled man. Shocking, right? But Bruce has been everywhere around the world and has learned a few tricks. He's faced tougher guys from unruly pet owners and military wannabes .

The vehicle pulls up to a large colonial style farmhouse. On the stretching, wraparound porch a woman stands up from her wicker chair before they even get out of the car. She is dressed in a tartan shirt tucked in faded jeans. Her dark leather boots make a smacking sound against the wooden floor as she walks down the steps to greet them.

"Bruce!" She says warmly as she shakes his hand. Her palm is calloused, her grip firm and strong.

"Good morning Mrs. Harnorsand."

"Please, its Frigga. You've known me long enough enough to call me that, yes?" Bruce nods and she outstretches her arm towards a beaten down path leading away from the house. He follows her, one hand in his coat pocket and another fingering the shoulder strap of his satchel.

"I'll be in the northeast barn. Holler when you're done." Bucky calls after him and doesn't wait for an answer.

Asgard Old Place, like the name Frigga, is just a nickname. Same, the Harnorsand children were called the Odinsons, with respective titular Norse gods' names. Christopher had been dubbed Thor for his blond good looks, booming voice and large physique. He had had the name for so long that Bruce suspected some people didn't know his real name. Of course there was no Thor without Loki so his brother had the misfortune of being nicknamed besides him, though it wasn't far off from the truth that the youngest Odinson was prone to cause mischief at Thor's expense.

Nevertheless, Asgard was a successful horse ranch effectively run by Odin himself. He supposed he wasn't around. The man liked to greet guests by himself and would never send anyone to do it for him. As if sensing his thoughts, Frigga spoke up "Odin is sick. Fever. Refuses to see a doctor. He's pretty stubborn."

"Yeah, I see where Thor gets that from."

Frigga laughed. Like the pearling of silver bells the sound of her voice was magical to hear. Speak of the devil, and he shall come. Thor was riding towards them, the grey mare carrying him running against the plush green carpet of grass as if she was made of the wind. She didn't even seem to touch the ground at all. Mjolnir was an exceptional horse, possibly the best in Asgard challenged only by Sleipnir. She halted before them and Thor dismounted.

"Bruce! So glad to see you here!"

"Same, Thor." The brown haired man winces as he is patted on the back a little too harshly.

"Let's walk." Frigga says. They head towards the stables. People are moving around, leading horses, moving hay and fodder, breaking newcomers. Its a busy place. Some recognize Bruce and give him a wave. He waves back. He isn't exactly a new face here. He's after all, the only vet in town, when you counted out his two assistants who are still in college.

"Which one of the horses is sick?" He finally questions.

"Two actually." Thor corrects. "Albion and Frey. The latter broke her leg and Albion has been hit by a fever. Seems like everybody's getting sick."

They are greeted by the sound of neighing the moment the stable doors are thrown open. Bright luminescent lights gaze overhead. There are only a few horses in. Bruce supposes the rest are outside grazing. A dark haired woman is already with Frey when they reach her. She is holding the mare's head, whispering soft words of comfort. Brunhilde is legendary among horse trainers. More times than he could count, he had witnessed her break the toughest of horses, coach the most stubborn of foals into utter perfection. The beautiful animals find her presence natural and familiar. 'Horse Whisperer' is a title well earned, he thinks.

That could not be said of her relationships with people. She avoided conversation beside the casual good morning. She was rarely seen away from the ranch and was mostly an outcast. Bruce solely believed he and Thor were her only (best) friends. And she liked drinks. A lot. He wondered how she got to work sober most days. Best if he didn't know. He knelt beside Frey and got to work.


	4. Chapter 4

The Sanctuary's lobby is well kept and has a homely, welcoming feel to it.

"Good morning, how can I help you?" the woman behind the oak counter asks her. Her black, magenta tinted hair goes well with her chocolate skin. She is quite beautiful, but there is a fierceness in her dark eyes that tells Karen she shouldn't waste time in stating her business — this is a woman who's got things to do. She reads the plaque. 'Gamora Alarsi' it says.

"I want to rent a room." She states simply.

Gamora shows her the vast array of rooms and flats that are available via a 2D map. The ones with red pins are already taken. She has to choose quickly because college students would barge in through the doors any moment soon and book out the entire place. Karen goes with the studio apartment knockoff, as Gamora calls it. It has this little living room, bedroom and toilet but no kitchen. Its affordable — less than she thought it would cost.

Karen pays for it in cash, a period of three months. Miss Alarsi doesn't seem curious and makes the transaction while informing her of the free WiFi service available from six to eight in the morning and from five to nine in the evening. Cable is unlimited.

"We also have a home style kitchen where you can cook for yourself. It has its own fee. Or you can sign up for the breakfast, lunch and dinner service. Dinner is free on Christmas and Thanksgiving."

Once they are done, Gamora hands Karen her key and puts away her luggage in storage. The blonde woman says a quick goodbye and almost runs back to the truck where Luke is waiting. Five minutes later the vehicles lurches to a stop in front of a three story building back on Central Avenue. The man gives her the number to the auto repair shop, "Mack & Cage's'.

She checks the time. She's one minute late. She brushes her hair back to look presentable and enters the newspaper agency. Three pairs of eyes turn to scrutinise her and then return back to work. The office is in a bustle. Not unlike New York. Just as loud, just as rushed but not as many people. She walks to the tiny lobby where a heavyset woman is furiously typing on the computer.

"Hello, I'm Karen Page and I have an appointment starting... one minute ago, with a certain J. Jonah Jameson."

"You're the New York lady. Jonah's waiting for you on the second floor. Can't miss his office." The woman replies without looking up. Karen nods and makes her way upstairs. Nobody stops her.

The moment she reaches the second floor, the most scornful voice she's ever heard booms, "Marty, get your ass over there. Where in the fuckety fuck is Willa Willis? Tell her this story is so raw its still trying to find Nemo! Where the hell are those photos from Stark? Jesus, what are we running here? Pleasant Hill's post office? Y'all as slow as fuck. My grandma could outrun you, and she's dead!" The sound of a door slamming seems to shake the entire building. That must be Jonah.

She quickly strides to where the sound came from. The door is lettered with the man's name along with 'Editor in Chief' in a faded Droid Serif font. The letters o and r are missing in editor. She knocks thrice.

"Come in!" He bellows from the inside. His office is cramped. Cabinets are overflowing with files. Piles upon piles of paper are haphazardly placed around the room.

"The fuck are you?" Jameson is a tall, beady eyed man with a flat topped haircut, his temples already gray. His face is long, permanent wrinkles resting on his forehead, the result of scowling too much, Karen presumes. A square moustache lies under his hawkish nose. He had been in the process of lighting up a cigarette so the offending item is still in between his teeth.

"Karen Page. We have an appointment. Sorry for being late." She says. Ben had said first impressions matter to Jonah. Her first was being late but she was making up for it.

"Nah." He waves her apology away. "Gave me time to yell at those fuckers." She is unfazed by his vulgarity. She's heard worse.

"Sit down, Miss Page." He orders gruffly and throws the cigar into the trash bin.

"Ben told me of your..." Jonah taps his fingertips together. "Predicament." Karen doesn't answer.

"Miss Page this agency is a rusty but smooth running machine. It ain't the Times or the Bulletin but its still a newspaper. We report what matters to the folk of this town and county. What they want and need to know. I know what y'all city folk think; we run gossip columns on who married who and who had a baby. Its much more than that. So I want you to give this paper your all. I want you to love this work, because nobody forced you to be here. You get me, Karen?"

"Yes. I understand, Mr. Jameson. Thank you by the way, for accepting Ben's request."

Jonah sighs. "Yeah. Now, get on to Brock. Big, brown hair. Has birthmark on forehead. He'll give you the necessary contracts to sign. Take your time reading them then he'll show you your desk. Have a good day, Karen."

The woman nodded. Just as she was about to leave the tiny office, Jonah called out "And Miss Page? Don't get big headed."

\- Line Break -

Steve immediately senses the break in wasn't the reason Nick called him when he arrives at the Town Hall. The staff work at a normal pace and there seems to be no panic. Second, Detective Mercedes 'Misty' Knight is there. There is simply no need to call two well established officers for a sole purpose, even a break in. Nick doesn't work that way. Misty spots him and walks over.

"Morning, Cap. I've done the necessary. Suspect, motive; lock, stock and barrel. I've got this."

"I know." He pats her shoulder. "Keep up the good work, detective." He takes long strides and in a moment is before a door. He hesitates before speaking.

"Mr. Mayor?"

"Come in, Sheriff." Nick Fury's brooding voice answers. Steve carefully got in, shoulders tense. His fingers kept running over his Glock in pure nervousness. He'd never felt this way in front of anybody. Something was going on.

"How've you been, Rogers?" The Mayor asks without looking at him. He's in his usual attire; black suit, black shirt, black eye patch. One long leg is draped over a knee.

"Good, all things considered." Steve replied warily.

"You might want to sit down kid." Nick's bony hand waves him over to a leather armchair.

The sheriff complied and settled into the comfortable seat. "Am I fired?" He jokingly asks in an attempt to lighten up the mood.

"There is no humor in that, Steve. Men like you are rare in your line of work. So yes, you still have your job." The man sighs as he stands up, walking to the window with his back to Steve.

"I suppose this isn't about the break in?"

"You know me."

"I'll take that as a no. Nick, what's going on?" Silence. The tension continues to uncoil like asnake. Its killing Steve inside. Something terrible has happened. Fury is a straightforward man and the fact that he has personally requested his presence is troubling.

"Bernie's dead."

The short sentence is like a slap to Steve's face. His breath gets caught in his throat, a yawning pit forming in the depths of his stomach. He can't think. He has to blink several times to make sure he us still within the bounds of reality. Denial is already developing in the back of his mind. Somehow the words Bernie and dead don't fit together.

"How?" He doesn't know why he asks the question. His heart is beating too fast.

"Plowed down by a drunk driver. You know Floridians. Crazy ass sorts of people."

More silence. Then, "I-I need to go."

"They done and buried her, kid. She died four days ago. Brother got body on the plane same day she went to kingdom come. Put her in the ground yesterday afternoon. You weren't informed because you're a hard person to find. Until today. I'm tthe closest thing you got to an emergency contact."

Steve's face is in his hands, eyes firmly screwed shut. Some part of him wants to scream itsnot real. He knows better than that. Death waits for no one. It takes and ravages wherever it can, whenever it pleases. When he opens his eyes, black spots dance in his vision. A headache is starting to exhibit itself.

"That isn't the only reason I called you. The people who called me are Child Protection Services." Steve's head shoots up.

"What? Bernie and I — we didn't..." Grief is replaced by confusion. Fury is now looking at him.

"I guess she lied to you and the court, then. She was four months pregnant when she filed for divorce."

And his whole world crumbles into fine, ashen dust.


End file.
